


Find A Way

by masterroadtripper



Series: Best We Can [11]
Category: Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Family Feels, M/M, Mid-Canon, Nonbinary Character, Patch's story, Pre-Relationship, The Refuge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:21:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23806039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/masterroadtripper/pseuds/masterroadtripper
Summary: How does Patch come to be a member of the Lower Manhattan Newsies?  The story of who the young newsie named Patch is and how they came to know everyone.
Relationships: Crutchie/Jack Kelly
Series: Best We Can [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1555765
Kudos: 23





	Find A Way

Staring at the roof from their location on their back, Finlay fiddled with the lace on their boot. Tucked up against the wall, Finlay ran their fingers along the knots tied into the lace. All thirty-four of them. The bumps under their fingers in the single strip of leather threaded into boots were just a reminder of the fact that they had managed to confirm that yes, all actions come back to get you.

Closing their eyes against the invasive light shining through the window above their hand, Finlay cursed the decision that had landed them in the Refuge in the first place. Stealing a loaf of bread off a cart in the market followed by running from the cops. It had been a couple days since they’d last eaten and the bread had just been sitting right there. Easy pickings and, well, Finlay was a notoriously good thief. Now, they’d been sentenced to three months, locked up in the drudgery and boring atmosphere of the Refuge. It had only been thirty-four days.

That was when Finlay heard the jangling of keys in the lock to the cell, signalling either supper or the much more likely new arrival to the cell they’d been placed in. Which was going to be horrible, in all honesty, because they were already stacked two to a bunk and this was only going to make it worse.

Especially with the news of the newsboys strike that had made the paper that morning. When the guards had come around with the measly scraps of bread for breakfast, one of them had a newspaper tucked under their arm. “Newsboys Strike Enters Third Day,” the headline had said. Finlay took it in with a well-timed snort, earning them a couple glares from their cellmates but didn’t garner any other mean comments.

Based on the fact that there were many of the trolley workers in the cells, even two on the bunk below them, there would probably be an influx of newsies joining the bunks in this cell. Which, as they were already two to a bunk, being raised to three would just be unpleasant. Finlay was small, and their bunkmate, a kid only known as Robby, was also not the biggest, so they had enough space to go around, but one more would get awkward.

Into the cell a guard shoved a kid. On first guess, Finlay thought he couldn’t have been any older than thirteen, his blond hair streaked with blood and face sporting the beginnings of bruises. Maybe he was one of the striking newsboys that police had caught. Usually, out on the streets, Finlay was able to differentiate the other kids around him based on what they wore. And newsies wore the newsboy caps. This kid was missing his cap, but just based on the newspaper they’d caught a glimpse of the other day, this kid had to be a newsie.

The guard slammed the door shut and the newsie with the blond hair crumpled to the ground, seemingly unable to hold himself upright on his own, and Finlay looked around to see if anyone else was going to go help him. The new kid needed to lay down and recover for a little. Maybe if the kid could help a little, Finlay would offer him part of the bunk for the night.

When it was obvious that no one else was going to move to help the new boy, Finlay scooted off their piece of the bunk bed and hopped down to the ground, not bothering to use the ladder, which was probably more dangerous anyways. Running across the dirty and grungy floor of the cell, Finlay skidded to a stop near the new kid without worrying about what Robby would say about having to share with one more person.

“Oi kid, leave ‘im ‘lone,” one of the guys on the other side of the room hollered. Finlay ignored the gruff and mean voice and crouched down next to the new kid.

“Hiya,” Finlay whispered, poking him in the shoulder gently with a finger. The new kid hissed out a breath of air from between his clenched teeth and slowly started trying to push himself to sitting. It looked like every movement he made was so brutally painful that he was going to pass out he was not careful.

“Can I ‘elp youse?” Finlay whispered again, trying to stay quiet enough that the grouchy kid from the other bunk wouldn’t bother them. The sooner they got this new kid out of harm's way, the sooner Finlay could start asking questions. They were really curious how this guy had ended up in the Refuge.

“Can’t move wifout my crutch,” the new kid whispered, finally managing to get himself into a position where he was more-or-less seated. His left leg was now tucked up underneath him while his right was laid completely outstretched on the floor. Maybe he had hurt it. Maybe that was what the crutch was for.

“Youse...what?” Finlay asked.

“My crutch. ‘Elps me stand,” the boy explained and Finlay nodded. So they had seen this kid before. He sold over by Trinity Church, Finlay was pretty sure, and always hung out with the other boy. The one in the blue shirt. The blue shirt was hard to miss. No one wore blue, anything in that colour was expensive and it blew their mind that a newsie was able to buy something in that shade.

“Youse wanna come sits?” Finlay asked, pushing themself to standing and holding out their hands. They weren’t sure if they would be actually able to pull the blond boy to his feet, but it was worth a try.

“I’m gonna knock youse ova’ kid,” the blond boy said but reached up and grabbed onto Finlay’s hands anyways. Pulling hard, they were suddenly standing, the blond boy about a half a head taller than Finlay. Supporting all his weight on his left leg, which was now shaking with the exertion and weight being placed onto it, Finlay realized that they would need to get him moving before he collapsed again.

“I gotsa spot on the bunk ova’ dere,” Finlay said, cocking their head towards the piece of the bunk they’d claimed at the start of their stay at the Refuge thirty-four days ago.

“Fanks kid,” the new kid said, “but I aint takin youse bed from yah.”

“Aint really a bed,” Finlay replied, trying to support more weight off of the blond boy so that he could stand without fear of falling over. Or, less fear of falling over.

“‘Sides,” Finlay continued as they slowly started moving, “Youse looks real bad, I’m fine.”

“‘Kay,” the blond boy replied as they made it to the bunk that Finlay had claimed their spot at, “but youse aint sleepin’ on the floor.”

Finlay didn’t reply as they watched the boy attempt to climb the ladder to the top area of the bunk, completing it surprisingly effectively. Snorting to themself before following up, Finlay noticed that Robby was sleeping, or, pretending to sleep and not paying any mind to the newest member on their bunk.

“I stays on this side,” Finlay reported, crawling across the mattress on all fours as the newsie followed, scooting backwards using his hands and left leg. Once pressed up against the wall on the side opposite the ladder, the boy let his head rock backwards, his skull connecting with the wall making an awful thumping noise.

“Fanks kid,” the newsie said, eyes sliding closed, head not moving from its location against the wall. It couldn’t be comfortable, but neither could his scraped up knees, skins, elbows and hands. The black eye and bruised cheek wouldn’t have been pleasant either.

“Were you one a dem strikin’ newsies?” Finlay asked suddenly, only after realizing that they’d been staring at the boy for much longer than would be strictly considered proper.

The newsie grunted out something that sounded affirmative but otherwise added nothing to the end. Eyes still closed, head still tilted back, Finlay could have mistaken him for a dead body had he not just been talking to him.

“My name’s Finlay, ‘ow ‘bout youse?”

“Crutchie,” the boy replied.

Surely that couldn’t have been his real name, could it? Though, for sake of honesty, Finlay wasn’t their “real” name either. Maybe Crutchie didn’t like the name that his mom and dad had given him and decided that Crutchie worked better. Finlay had done exactly that after mom and dad had died. It wasn’t impossible.

“How old are you kid?” Crutchie asked, eyes still closed, head still back.

“Nine, well, almost,” Finlay replied. At least, they thought they were still eight. It was hard to keep track of the actual date inside the Refuge.

“Gots any family waitin’ for youse on tha’ outside?” Crutchie asked.

“Aint gots no one,” Finlay replied, trying to keep the sadness out of their voice. They’d been on their own for a while now and barely even thought about their parents nowadays.

“Me neither,” Crutchie answered.

“Youse gots –,” Finlay started, though was cut off by Crutchie speaking again.

“Look kid, as much as I loves talkin’, I really do, can I please jus’ ‘ave a little quiet? My ‘ead’s killin’ me ova ‘here. We can talks more tomorra mornin’, kay?”

“Sure. Course Crutchie. Imma jus’ goin’ ta sit ova ‘ere,” Finlay replied, scooting a little bit away from the blond newsie and leaning back against the hard metal frame that was closing up the dirty window.

They didn’t normally like sitting against the disgustingly dirty glass, but the newsie - Crutchie - was leaning against the wall that Finlay laid against. Besides, Crutchie needed to rest more than they did.

* * *

It was early the next morning when Finlay heard the rattling of a set of window bars. While not an entirely uncommon noise coming from the inside of the Refuge, it was certainly unique to be heard from the outside. Startling awake, Finlay tried to determine from which window the noise was being made. Just a bunk and a half down, the light from the moon was dimmed, a shadow of a human body being cast against the concrete floor.

At the window between the two bunks, Finlay pulled an old hairpin out of their pocket and wedged open the piece of glass that could move. Later, they would question how the person outside the window had known to come to the one window at the Refuge that could move, specifically, but at the moment, it didn’t cross their mind.

“Hiya,” Finlay whispered into the warm night air. Staring back at him was a boy with curly blond hair stacked tight against his head and a pair of glasses so thick that they looked like they should have screwed onto the top of a bottle.

“Dere was a newsie brought in ‘ere yesterday, right?” the boy in the glasses asked frantically.

“Yeah,” Finlay replied pointing over towards where Crutchie had yet to move from the day before. All night, the blond newsie hadn’t moved a single inch.

“Do youse finks youse can gets him ta come ova ‘ere?” the boy in the glasses asked.

“Gots ta do it quick, the guards aint likes when we’s open this window,” Finlay replied, rushing back towards their bed and climbing over Robby to poke Crutchie. One blue eye opened and then promptly fell shut again.

“Leave me ‘lone,” Crutchie grunted.

“Dere’s a newsie ‘ere ta see youse, wants youse ta come ova and talks wif ‘im,” Finlay reported.

“And youse really finks I’ll be ables to move all the way ova dere?” Crutchie whispered back angrily, “my legs and ‘ips are all seized. I aint able ta move a muscle.”

“Kay, I’ll tells them tha’,” Finlay replied, scooting off the bed once again and rushing back towards the newsie in the glasses.

“He aints able ta moves. He’s lookin’ real not good,” Finlay reported and the newsie let out a sad sigh.

“Can youse give’s ‘im this?” glasses asked, sliding a small folded up parcel through the window. If he wants to write anyfing back, I’ll be backs at this time tomorra.”

And with that, the newsie in the glasses disappeared into the night. Closing up the window and slowly heading back to their bunk, hands heavy with the parcel for Crutchie, Finlay wondered who it was from, if not from the newsie in the glasses himself.

* * *

“So,” Crutchie asked later that day, parcel still sitting unopened at his hips, legs spread out in front of him with less awkward pain than earlier, “you wear tha’ eyepatch all the time?”

“This?” Finlay asked, reaching up and touching the stiff leather that covered their left eye. Most of the time, they forgot that they even wore it, as they rarely took it off anymore. With a lack of regular bathing, there was no reason to take it off. Besides, underneath was an ugly sight, a mess of scaring covering over a wildly discoloured eye that was completely dysfunctional. There was no reason for anyone to see that.

“What else,” Crutchie replied with a dry humour that could only be attributed to a conversation between two people with something wrong with them.

“Factory accident,” Finlay said by way of explanation, “aint really no reason to takes it off.”

“Polio,” Crutchie said, pointing down his right leg, the one that seemed stiffer and frankly, more useless, than the other. That made sense. That was why he needed a crutch, to support himself because his leg was useless. Just like Finlay’s eyepatch and his eye. Maybe that’s why he was called Crutchie.

“Sorry,” Finlay said, compulsively filling the silence with something.

“Wasn’t youse faults, now was it?” Crutchie said, opening his eyes and looking straight into Finlay’s for the first time.

“No,” Finlay replied, shifting a little awkwardly under the scrutiny of Crutchie’s gaze.

“So why youse sayin’ sorry,” Crutchie asked.

“Aint know what else ta say,” Finlay explained, looking down and fiddling with the lace on his boot. Right. He hadn’t tied a knot in it yet today, too busy with his new bunkmate.

“Why youse do tha’?” Crutchie asked, watching as Finlay’s thin fingers tied a knot snug against the rest.

“Countin’ the days,” Finlay replied, letting the lace drop before changing the subject away from themselves again, “Youse gonna write back to your friends?”

“Soon,” Crutchie replied, grabbing the little parcel off the bed and shoving it between himself and the wall, out of Finlay’s line of sight, obviously done being questioned about it.

* * *

There was something nice, Finlay came to realize, about having someone to talk to. Time passed at an exceedingly rapid rate, and before they knew it, ten more knots had been added onto the lace of the boot and there was an uproar of shouting just outside. While it wasn’t entirely uncommon, it was a little unnerving as the rest of the boys in the cell gathered around the windows to watch what they could through the layers of dirt and grime that was covering them.

Suddenly, in a flurry of activity, officers - real police officers - were flooding the halls of the Refuge, keys jangling against bars and locks, the confused shouts and conversations from further down the hall mixing into one wall of noise.

Following the rest of the guys from where they were standing by the window towards the wall of bars, Finlay could see between the gaps in the bodies in front of them and saw some of the other children from the other cells walking into the halls before being ushered towards the main hall leading towards the outdoors.

Rushing back towards the bunk that Finlay had called home from the past forty-five days, they climbed the ladder three rungs at a time to shove Crutchie awake. The older boy hadn’t been sleeping through the night, it didn’t seem, and had been catching up during the day. Finlay didn’t understand quite why that happened, but they’d had to shove him awake from nightmares during the times he slept in the day.

“Crutchie, wake up,” Finlay said, shoving the boy a little harder, causing him to groan before opening his eyes and looking around.

“W’as goin’ on?” Crutchie muttered, pushing himself up a little from where he’d slumped against the wall behind him. Face contorted with pain as he straightened out his spine, Finlay watched as the blond newsie looked around and tried to understand what was going on. Honestly, Finlay didn’t know what was happening either, but they did know that something big was happening and, even though they’d only known Crutchie for eleven days, they didn’t want him to be left behind.

“Dunno Crutchie, but is somefin’ big and youse gotsta come down ‘ere,” Finlay said reaching out and grabbing onto one of Crutchie’s wrists and tugging him back towards the ladder.

“I’m movin’ I’m movin’ but youse gots ta give me my arm back,” Crutchie said as Finlay let go and jumped down off the bunk. Crutchie followed and supporting himself lightly on Finlay’s shoulder as they made their way towards the wall of bars.

“You’re free boys,” the cop announced, flicking through the keys, “and your sentences finished. Please take this opportunity to not get arrested again and make something of yourselves, okay?”

A chorus of “yes sir,” rang out through the cell as the door was unlocked.

“Please head towards the door in an orderly fashion,” the officer said, stepping to the side to allow the flood of boys to pass through. From their place at the back of the crowd, Finlay and Crutchie slowly walked towards the exit with the throng.

“Kid, is your name Charlie Morris?” the officer asked as they passed through the door, placing a firm hand on Crutchie’s shoulder. Finlay looked up at the officer and then towards Crutchie, taking in the fear and panic in his eyes.

“Yessir,” Crutchie replied, standing up just a little bit taller.

“Jack Kelly asked me to find you,” the officer said, before adding, “and he requested that we bring you to The World.”

* * *

Trailing behind Crutchie, who was walking on his own now, a crutch that was a little too big for him wedged under his arm. Finlay looked around the massive building that was stretched out in front of them.

“Jack Kelly leads the union,” Crutchie had explained on the carriage, “and he’s my best friend.”

Finlay had sat in relative silence the entire ride to The World, fearful that saying anything would change Crutchie’s mind and make the older boy leave him behind on the streets somewhere. They weren’t willing to risk that and had followed without contradicting Crutchie.

“Youse ‘kay ova there Finlay?” Crutchie asked about a block and a half later, “Youse been real quiet.”

“M’fine,” Finlay replied, turning away to take in the streets of Lower Manhattan from their position on the horse-drawn carriage.

“Kay. Well, if youse eva wants to talk, I’m a real good listener,” Crutchie replied as the carriage had slowed to a halt in front of the wrought iron gates of The World.

The building, clean and neat, standing out in the midst of other soot and ash stained establishments had its courtyard filled to bursting with dozens and dozens of kids about Crutchie’s age shouting, laughing and jostling each other around. Were these the newsies that Crutchie worked with?

“Fanks mister,” Crutchie said to the carriage driver and motioned for Finlay to follow as they stepped awkwardly onto the uneven pavement underneath. Following silently, a couple of steps behind Crutchie, towards the gates and eventually, through them, Crutchie was promptly swarmed with people.

One of the guys, one wearing a red cap with a cigar clenched tight between his teeth shouted louder than Finlay thought was humanly possible, “Hey Jack look! Its Crutchie!”

The boy in question, the one in the blue shirt that Finlay could have sworn they’d seen selling with Crutchie before came tearing through the crowd. Skidding to a stop just in front of Crutchie, the taller boy in the blue shirt, presumably this Jack character, held the smaller boy at an arms-length in front of him with tears in his eyes before pulling him in for what looked like a bone-crushing hug. It took a couple of seconds for Crutchie to return the hug, but when he did, Finlay watched as the two both broke out into massive smiles as the crowd started cheering even louder.

These guys really must have missed Crutchie. He was lucky to have people who missed him. 

Soon, Crutchie was dragged off into the sea of newsies, leaving Finlay standing in the throng of other guys that were all considerably taller than they were. Looking around for an exit, Finlay walked straight into a small boy in grey with a black bowler hat on. Relatively the same size, they were able to look into his dark brown eyes and crack a smile.

“Hiya!” the boy in grey chirped, a smile brightening his face.

“Hi,” Finlay grunted out swiping a handful of brown hair away from their face.

“Are you new? What’s your name? Mine’s Les,” the boy in grey - Les - said, talking almost a mile a minute. It made Finlay smile wider. They liked this Les already.

“Finlay,” they replied.

“Well, if you’re gonna be a newsie, you gotta have a newsie name because that aint one,” Les said, grabbing Finlay’s arm and starting to drag them back into the crowd of other newsies. Finlay was about to protest that they really didn’t need a newsie nickname because they weren’t a newsie and hadn’t really been planning on becoming one.

“Patch!” Les chirped again, interrupting Finlay’s train of thought. Turning to one of the newsies they were standing near, Les said, “Finch, meet Patch!”

“Hiya Patch,” a newsie, likely Finch, said with a smile before turning back to talking with some of the other people around them.

Patch. Finlay tried the nickname in their head, bouncing it around and sizing it up within some sentences. It wasn’t all that bad actually. Patch. It wasn’t bad at all.

* * *

Sitting on a bunk with a mattress much thicker than the one they’d had at the Refuge, Patch resisted the urge to tie another knot in the singular lace of their boot. They didn’t need it anymore. They weren’t locked up, they weren’t trapped. For the first time in way too long, they had a blanket to wrap up in, a full stomach and a bunk to call their own. Underneath them, they could hear Les’s soft snuffling snores, the boy soundly asleep.

Closing their eyes and rolling over in the blanket cocoon that they’d made, Patch felt their eyes slipping shut and body falling to sleep. For the first time for a while, they were safe. They knew they were safe.

**Author's Note:**

> 1) Hello everyone! I am still alive (a miracle, yes I know). After a brief (and slightly mandatory break) I am back and ready to keep writing this series!
> 
> 2) Patch is a young newsie that makes appearances within the rest of this series and is an original character and I just wanted to write a little backstory to them and how they met Crutchie.
> 
> 3) Patch is nonbinary and uses they/them pronouns, however, this computer is a little bit of an asshole sometimes and loves to autocorrect they/them pronouns. If I've missed one that you notice, please please please let me know. 
> 
> 4) Patch is young in this and sometimes uses terms that aren't "politically correct" in today's day in age. I wanted to make it as accurate to the language of the time period as possible, and while it was hard, I did have to use some old fashioned terms.


End file.
